


The Fire on the Ice

by soitgoes2142



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Helcaraxë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soitgoes2142/pseuds/soitgoes2142
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grinding Ice is cruel, and Irisse and her family struggle to survive as they cling to remnants of their pasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire on the Ice

The Helcaraxe was cruel. That was the best word Irisse had found for it, though many more applied: unforgiving, demanding, demeaning. It took everything you had, quite literally. Irisse was sure that their path--the path of the Exiles, forsaken by the Valar, abandoned by their own kin--could be traced back across the Grinding Ice by a trail of discarded trinkets and tokens. 

It was just so cold. The end was nowhere in sight, their packs heavy. The non-essentials were left by the side of the meager path they blazed through the snow, and eventually swallowed by the wide white landscape. Food. Water. Warm clothes. Kindling. Tools. Weapons. That was what they needed, what they carried to survive. Everything else must go, her father had said. Every extra pound means a deeper hunger gnawing at your belly, a more onerous curve to your back, a greater ache in your feet at the end of the march, Nolofinwe had warned.

But certain burdens Irisse's people shouldered anyway.   
They could not or would not let them go.   
These things they carried not to survive, but so they would have something to live for.

Walking next to Finrod, Irisse could hear the quiet clink of metal on metal. Under his layers of furs and sweaters and shirts, he wore necklaces strung with precious gems. His wrists were ringed with gold and silver bangles beneath his long sleeves. His ears sparkled when the sun broke through the clouds heavy with snow, diamond studs glinting in the light. "I use no space in my pack, I bear what I can wear," her cousin said with a wry grin. Finrod spoke at length about his plans for the jewels and precious metals. “Valuable to us in Valinor, surely valuable to the elves of Middle earth. This will be the basis of my kingdom. I will not give up my power to barter by leaving my most portable wealth behind.” He could go on and on about the types of stones imbedded in each piece. It passed the time while walking. But every time Finrod removed his gloves Irisse would glimpse the jewelry he never mentioned--two identical rings, stacked together on his second smallest finger. Irisse recognized them as betrothal rings. Finrod's own, and the one Amarie had returned to him without a word when he made it clear he would leave Aman. Finrod carried his future, and he carried his past.

Artanis bore a cherished mirror. At first this had surprised Irisse, as her cousin, though the most beautiful of the house of Finwe, cared little for vanity and the trappings of femininity. During the evenings, when they rested, Artanis would extract the mirror from her pack and turn it over and over in her hands. The back was inlaid with iridescent pearls and beautiful sea glass from Alqualonde. It had belonged to Artanis' mother, and to her mother before her, a line of Telerin women whose love for the sea ran deep. Irisse's cousins had that same blood in their veins, blood that had been spilled as the Noldor made their way to the new world. As she caressed the pearls and polished the mirror to shining, Artanis calmly explained how she planned to break Feanaro's famously chiseled nose with the heavy silver handle when they reached Beleriand. Her eyes, shining with emotion and determination, were reflected in the looking glass. Artanis carried her heritage, and she carried her vengeance.

Turukano and Elenwe both carried books, long past the point when most people had dumped even their sketchbooks and diaries in the snow to lighten their loads. If that didn't prove how perfectly matched the couple was, Irisse didn't know what would. Elenwe kept two slim volumes of Vanyarin poetry, Ellemire's famed work. Those were the lilting melodic words Elenwe had heard throughout her childhood, the pinnacle of literature and spirituality to the Vanyar. Turukano retained a beautifully illuminated history of the elves, recounting the Great Journey and the rise of the Three Peoples of the Eldar. Irisse asked her brother and his wife why they kept the heavy tomes. For most, reading was a pleasure sacrificed early in their trek. “The books are for her,” Elenwe said simply, gesturing to their most precious cargo, the one cradled in Turukano's arms: their daughter Itarille. "We want her to know the world we came from. I doubt she'll remember much of Valinor, but we hope the texts will help her feel a connection to our past, her birthplace." Turukano nodded solemnly, dropping a kiss on his sleeping daughter's curly hair. They carried their people's history and they carried their people's tomorrow.

Irisse was not without her own burdens. She carried two bows slung across her back when common sense would only dictate carting one across the bitter ice. But she couldn't bring herself to abandon either. One was the first bow she had made herself, under Tyelkormo's excited instructions and impatient admonitions. As a girl just shy of her majority the bow had been Irisse's pride and joy. She had cleaned her creation every evening and used it for each target practice and hunting expedition, any excuse to show off her new craft. Now it was a bit small and too light. It could not shoot as far as more powerful bows, like the other one she carried. The larger bow had been a gift from her grandfather, King Finwe. It was made from wood of the finest quality, curved as naturally as a reed in the wind and engraved with a short inscription: For my granddaughter, Irisse the White. The use of that epithet had struck her to the core. She had started wearing white when her father lamented that hunting was not ladylike, surely she would sully her fine clothes in the process. From that day forward Irisse defiantly wore white on her hunts, and could butcher a deer without getting a spot of blood on her dress. Finwe's acknowledgment of her skills had been a personal victory. So Irisse shouldered both bows. She carried her childhood innocence and she carried her adult experience.

The Helcaraxe took a toll on everyone. They had all sacrificed along the way. But Irisse was worried about Findekano. She looked around and saw her family clinging to pieces of their lives past all reason and expediency. She knew only some of the stories and rationalizations, but everyone had something. Arakano's scrap of a blanket that he had since he came up to Irisse's knee. Aikanaro's worn but beautifully engraved leather belt. Angarato's small portrait of his mother. They could not bear to leave some things behind. Yet Irisse watched Findekano and could not discern what token or trinket that he carried to keep himself sane, like their cousins and siblings and entire people.

He had been so quiet since that night, when they woke up abandoned. When they looked across the dark water and saw the bright flames. Ships burning. Hope burning. Trust gone up in smoke.

That night, when the ships burned, Irisse had cursed a blue streak that had Turukano covering his daughter's small ears. There had been keening, crying, angry shouting. Elenwe prayed quietly, under her breathe, even though the Valar had clearly abandoned them. Artanis had breathed deeply, keeping her emotions in check only by an extreme force of will. Arakano's cheeks were wet, his eyes uncomprehending. Findarato had laughed, a wild hysterical laugh that left his beautiful voice hitching in odd places. Her father orated, nearly matching Feanaro's feverish passion, his eyes glowing, motivating the people to go on. We will prove the traitors wrong. We will show our worth. We will go North, and fight for the kingdoms and lands we have dreamed of.

All that noise, and Findekano was silent. He had used all his breath to convince their father to undertake this journey in the first place. To trust Feanaro. To claim new kingdoms under the stars the first elves awakened beneath.

Findekano said nothing. He gazed at the flames. He gazed at his hands. Perhaps he could still see the blood that had coated them, after Alqualonde. The blood Maitimo had scrubbed away, gently and methodically.

Findekano had said nothing, and now no one spoke to him. He had some friends and followers who would not desert him, but few enough. The people whispered about him. Many had seen him disembark from the swan ship after Alqualonde, spattered with blood and gore. Kinslayer, they called him, and were not wrong. They knew him to be a friend of the Feanorians, or at least of the eldest Feanorion. He had been willing to die, and to kill, for the betrayers. When they they looked at him their eyes were dark with distrust. There were no Feanorians out on the Ice. When they sharpened their pain and fear into hate, they leveled it at Findekano.

Her brother seemed not to care. He was locked in some prison of himself, blue eyes empty though he applied all his strength and wits to setting up camp, hunting and scouting as they made their way across the barren ice. He spoke when spoken to, gave the orders and performed the actions needed to keep his people going, but he was not the joyful, passionate Findekano she had always known.

Everyone was changed on the journey across the Helcaraxe. The howling wind and biting cold did not lend itself to pleasant, companionable traveling. Irisse passed the slow hours looking for those remnants of home clutched in hands or tied to cloaks, laced to overflowing packs or worn close to the heart. The seemingly superfluous things that each person held on to, because to them that object meant the world. She has spotted Findarato's, Artanis’, Turukano's, Arakano's, yet she could not uncover Findekano's.

He retired early when they made camp, curling up in his bedroll and sleeping, or pretending too. No one bothered him. Once when Irisse twisted her ankle during the daily trek, she lay down next to her big brother to rest. She was woken by the sound of crinkling parchment. Half opening her eyes, she saw Findekano with his knees pulled nearly to his chest, wide awake, pouring over some sheaf of parchment or page of a journal, his eyes moving rapidly over the page. The blank side of the parchment was all Irisse could see. Findekano had never brought out such a paper when their family ate together and shared stories from their day on the ice--that was when Artanis would take out her mirror, and would Arakano absentmindedly clutch at his blanket, and Findarato would reset a jewel from one of his necklaces. Irisse closed her eyes and forced herself not to pry. She hoped whatever it was brought her brother some solace. She resolved to keep an eye on him.

Perhaps her eye should have been elsewhere. Several days later, Findekano and Irisse--who was making a point to walk beside her isolated brother--were trailing behind Turukano and Elenwe. The pair was taking their regular turn leading the column. Irisse was telling some rambling story from their childhood, more to distract herself from the cold than to actually elicit a response from Findekano, when a sound they had all been fearing split the frigid air.

Findekano threw an arm across Irisse's chest as the loud crack of splintering ice reached their ears. Before them, a large section of rotten ice broke apart, sending Turukano and Elenwe tumbling down a deep crevasse. Irisse cried out. She felt as if ice water had been poured into her veins, freezing her to the spot, but Findekano moved. He picked his way across the ice quickly, daringly, until he could see down into the crevasse. His face became suddenly more animated than Irisse had seen since before the ships burned.

"There's water down there! A river under the ice! I see them moving...struggling..." The column of Noldor was starting to catch up to what had been their little group of four, leading the way across the frozen terrain. There were cries of alarm and shouted questions about who the ice had taken. While others queried, Findekano acted, his pack falling to the ground, his gloves flying off.

Her heart in her throat, Irisse shakily made her way to the edge of the crevasse where her brother stood, and in that short time Findekano managed to divest himself of his layers of furs, and began to strip down to his underclothes, "Finno, what...?" Irisse began. He cut her off, his eyes manic. "They need help. I can save them, Irisse!" And with that, he leapt into the hole in the ice.

Another wordless cry escaped Irisse as her brother landed with a splash. She could see now that Findekano had been thinking fast on his feet, as mad as it seemed to remove his outer clothes on the freezing Helcaraxe. Unhindered, Findekano swam towards Turukano, who was nearest. He freed his brother from the overloaded pack and waterlogged furs that had been dragging him down. Findekano pulled his exhausted brother out of the water, still deep in the crevasse, but onto an icy ledge slightly above the river. Turukano heaved, bringing up water, shaking and coughing.

From the depths Findekano yelled, "Irisse! Do you see Elenwe?" From her vantage point above the crevasse Irisse searched for a glint of blond hair, or a ripple in the water denoting motion, even for a pack or a coat or a glove floating in the rushing icy river, which came from under the ice and dove back under it. A glacial fist, colder than the Helcaraxe at its worst, curled around Irisse's insides. "I don't see her!" At that, Findekano dove back into the water, searching beneath the surface for any sign of Elenwe. Turukano rasped his wife's name from his ledge of ice, growing more panicked until he vomited another spout of water.

Irisse demanded ropes from the gathered bystanders and knotted them together as fast as her shaking hands could move. Some of Turukano's friends and followers helped her lower the long rope into the crevasse and lift out the half-drowned but still protesting Turukano. Their father had to order Findekano out of the water. No trace was found of Elenwe. Likely the current of the river had carried her away, under the ice. Both she and Turukano had been unable to swim properly, burdened with bags and bulky winter clothing. Only Findekano's valiant actions had saved their brother from being swept under the ice and off to the Halls of Mandos.

The people had seen it. Findekano and Turukano alike were piled with dry clothes and blankets by people who expressed their sympathy and extolled Findekano's valiance. Their eyes were softer, warmer, when they looked at the kinslayer among them. 

But that could change nothing.

Their broken family sat around the fire. Irisse and Findarato bookended Findekano and Turukano, who were still shivering from their plunge despite being wrapped in blankets. Findarato rubbed soothing circles on Turukano's back, who sat numb. His eyes were empty and unseeing. "She was right beside me..." He murmured. "I know, I know," Findarato intoned, trying to be comforting. He only sounded lost. Irisse held Findekano's hands in her own. He had been in the water a long time, searching for Elenwe. His extremities were blue and frozen by the time Nolofinwe ordered him to leave the water. "Do you feel anything, Finno?" she asked gently, massaging his fingertips and palms, hoping her own warmth would seep into his body. "Not yet," he said quietly.

Nolofinwe, Angarato, and Aikanaro were dealing with setting up camp and preparing for a needed hunt--they were running low on meat. The margin of error for such calculations was slim on the Helcaraxe. A mistake meant death when it came to allocating rations. Even those dark thoughts were a welcome distraction. Irisse didn’t want to dig too deeply into the events of the last few hours. She studied her family instead, her old fallback.

Artanis sat across the fire, staring into the flames. Arakano was beside her, worrying his scrap of blanket compulsively between his fingers. Irisse still found herself unconsciously searching for Elenwe. She'll be emerging from the tent any minute, Itarille in her arms, she would think for a blissful moment. Then she would remember that Elenwe was gone. Itarille had no mother. Turukano had no wife. The ice had taken her, as it had stolen so many things.

They sat around the fire, unspeaking, lost in their own dark reveries until the kindling began to run low and the flames sputtered their last. Arakano started to rise, saying in a faltering voice, "I can go try to find some more fuel. Finno and Turno have to keep warm," when Findekano spoke. "No," he said, so firmly that Arakano promptly sat back down. Findekano shook Irisse off as he staggered upright, stumbling slightly on his still frozen feet. "We shouldn’t waste the wood when I have something we can burn."

Despite his faltering gait, Findekano's eyes were hard as he lunged for his pack, ignoring the puzzled faces of his siblings and cousins. He grabbed the pack and upended it, shaking it violently. His bedroll, a knife, a spare set of clothes, some flint, a water jug, and two coiled hair ribbons scattered across the snow. "Findekano, what are you doing?" said Findarato tiredly. "Supplies are low but there is kindling enough..." Findekano did not stop. He seized the empty pack itself, and proceeded to tear into the lining. He reached into the hole in the fabric and pulled out a stack of parchment. He reached back in forcefully, the pack disgorging more and more sheets of paper from what had been a hidden pocket.

Soon a veritable mountain of paper surrounded him, all covered in an elegant hand that Irisse knew not to be her brother's cramped scrawl. There were piles of paper tied together with twine, some folded up small, some rolled into scrolls. Certain pages were discolored and wrinkled, others were more crisp and fresh-looking. Obviously the stockpile went back years. Artanis picked her head up from her hands and looked at her cousin with interest. Even listless Turukano managed to turn his head to stare at the unending flow of papers Findekano was unearthing from the depths of his pack.

Irisse had to know what Findekano carried. As he scoured every inch of his pack, she picked up several pages lying near her and began to read. They were letters, that much was clear from the first line of each: "My dear Findekano," they all began. Irisse's suspicions were confirmed as she scanned a few of the letters. Lines jumped out at her:

"I mith you, my friend," spelled with the archaic "th" instead of "s," which Irisse fought to ignore. 

"Construction at Formenos continues apace..."

"My brothers are dear to me, of course, but none can match your wit and humor..."

"As you stand by your father, I must stand by mine. It is my duty as eldest. You know I could not denounce his actions without aggravating the political situation, even though I was deeply alarmed when he raised his sword against Nolofinwe..."

"Do you remember the simple times when we would spar in the yard or go fishing at the pond, make each other laugh at those boring court functions..."

"Write back to me, Findekano. I cannot bear your silence. I may go mad, or do injury to myself..."

She looked up from the letters to her brother, who had abandoned the pack and was gathering all the papers together into great fistfuls. "We can burn these," he said fiercely. "Every last one. I should have done it a long time ago." He turned towards Irisse, holding out his hand demandingly. She brushed over the signature on the letter she still held in her hand before relinquishing it to Findekano. On the rare occasions she had corresponded with Feanaro's oldest son (usually about some spat she had had with Tyelkormo), the letters she received had been signed, rather formally, "Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion." The ones Findekano now clutched to his chest were all signed, "Your Maitimo."

Findekano fed the letters to the guttering flames, which began to grow under his ministrations. He added each one grimly and methodically, his expression set. Still shivering, Turukano leaned into the warmth. Findarato breathed a heavy sigh. Arakano turned his scrap of fabric over and over in his hands nervously. Artanis watched Findekano, her face inscrutable. Findekano said something under his breathe. Irisse wasn't sure whether he meant for his family to hear him or not. "He left me." He raised his voice slightly. "They left us. And now Elenwe is dead, because of their treachery and false friendship.” Findekano dropped another letter into the flames. At his side, Irisse could see it was one of the oldest letters, the handwriting large and childish, the parchment discolored with age. “If we freeze, they deserve to burn,” said Findekano harshly. 

Maitimo's letters were going up in smoke just as the ships had. Irisse wasn't sure how she should feel. Anger at the Feanorians rose in her as she pictured the dancing flames across the strait. She thought of Tyelkormo and Curufinwe, her old hunting companions, and mustered nothing but hate, contempt for their cowardice and selfishness, slinking away in the night.

Then again, she had never given her heart to a Feanorion. Maybe Findekano had.

They all watched Findekano burn the hoard of letters he had carried across leagues and leagues of the ice, through blizzards and hail, driving wind and blinding sun. The fire roared, and Findekano sighed. Sitting almost close enough to the flames to burn himself, he was finally getting warm. Irisse saw the ends of his braids dripping slightly as the vestiges of his attempt to save Elenwe melted away. The letters curled and blackened, the words warping and distorting. It was a mesmerizing sight.

When Aikanaro and Angarato finally succeeding in erecting the family tent, Findarato bundled Turukano inside, who could barely sit up straight, incapacitated by grief and exhaustion. Artanis rose gracefully and followed her brother. Arakano stuffed the scrap of blanket into his pocket and went off to consult with Aiko and Ango. Soon after, Nolofinwe appeared, carrying the sleeping, blissfully oblivious Itarille. He gently placed his granddaughter at Turukano's side inside the tent, then came to join his remaining children by the fire. His blue eyes, the same shade as Findekano's, flashed over the scene.

Findekano had not moved. He still crouched by the fire's edge, knees drawn up to his chest. Irisse too kept her seat. She was loathe to leave her brother alone. Her father squeezed her hand and smiled at her sadly before walking over to sit beside Findekano. Irisse watched her father stroke Findekano's hair as he had when they were young. "You were very brave today, Findekano. You did all that you could." "They’re calling me valiant again, despite Alqualonde," Findekano said flatly. “They shouldn’t. Maybe if I had saved her, I would be worthy of the title.” Nolofinwe said nothing, just watched the flames side by side with his son. Then he put a hand on his shoulder. "To lose someone you care about...to be left bereft due to ill chance or fate or some reason beyond our understanding...that is a terrible thing." From the way their father looked at Findekano, Irisse knew he was not only speaking about Elenwe's passing.

Nolofinwe kissed Findekano on the forehead and rose to his feet. He had thousands of people to console and cajole, reassure and reinvigorate. There were places he had to be besides with his children, even when they were grieving. Even when they were lost. Even when they had nothing left but each other.

That night Irisse held a vigil with Findekano. They watched over the flames until his burden was reduced to impersonal ashes.

Turukano found them still huddled by the fire pit after a few hours when he emerged from the tent, his daughter in his arms, his pack slung over his shoulder. His eyes were very hollow. Aredhel put an arm around him as he sat down by her side. "I couldn’t sleep anymore. When I did, I dreamed of flames. So I might as well contribute to my wife's funeral pyre," he said. He took out his heavy tome of Noldorin history, part of the weight that almost drowned him when he fell into the crevasse, and placed it on top of the pile of the glowing embers and charred papers. The plunge in the icy river had damaged it beyond repair, making the ink run and blurring the beautiful illuminations. Soon flames began to lick at the beautiful book as if it was a less precious fuel. 

With her brothers on either side of her, Irisse took the smaller of her two bows from her pack and unstrung it. She took out her knife and carved into the soft, supple wood that Tyelkormo had recommended for her first bow. Elenwe--wife, mother, bold daughter of the Vanyar the surface soon read. Irisse placed it at the base of the fire pit. Soon the camp began to stir, though the fire still burned. Findarato wandered over and promptly started fiddling with the clasps at his neck when he saw Irisse’s tribute. He removed a glittering necklace heavily laden with amber jewels, a color similar to Elenwe's warm blonde hair. Findarato affixed the clasp to Irisse's bow. Arakano passed by and hesitated only slightly before unwinding his piece of blanket from his anxious fingers, smoothing it out once, and leaving it to be consumed by flames. Artanis withdrew her mirror from her pack and pried the pearls and sea glass off the back, scattering them across the glowing remains of Findekano’s letters and Turukano’s book that filled the pit. Their makeshift funeral pyre. "I must keep the metal itself," she said, "or I will have nothing to hit Feanaro with."

They had little enough to give Elenwe, but what they sacrificed they had carried close to their hearts. As the Nolofinweans packed up camp and resumed their dreary march, Irisse and her siblings hung back. She watched the people notice their little shrine, and many paused to add their own tokens to the pile. The snow would eventually swallow any monument, but it warmed Irisse to her core to see that the people did not hoard their remaining treasures. They gave freely to memorialize a lost soul.

What they carried, and how far they carried it, would always be important.

But how and when they chose to give it up was perhaps more so.

**Author's Note:**

> Irisse=Aredhel  
> Findekano=Fingon  
> Turukano=Turgon  
> Arakano=Angrod  
> Artanis=Galadriel  
> Nolofinwe=Fingolfin  
> Findarato=Finrod  
> Angarato=Angrod  
> Aikanaro=Aegnor
> 
> This fic was partially inspired by "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien and the song "Burn" from the musical Hamilton.


End file.
